My Junk
by ChloeHeidrich1228
Summary: "We've all got our junk, and mine happens to be you." Trapped in Paris by the Weeping Angels, Quinley Smith finds an unlikely saviour in an old college friend's traveling companion. She agrees to join him on his journeys, but Quinley had no idea what she was getting into.
1. Chapter 1

_Splash. Splash. Splash. Splash._

The deluge of torrential rain fell in sheets from the tar black sky, soaking the ground and turning the dirt to a brown, sludgy mud. All around, the city covered in soupy mist, the building and street barely visible in the ongoing barrage of water. Above, the sky was thick with heavy, pregnant clouds.

Quinley ducked behind a building, attempting to catch her breath. The streets were empty, a shock, even with the rain; Parisian streets were always bustling, no matter the weather, but now, they were uncharacteristically silent. She poked her head around the corner, and, seeing the street was empty as far as was visible, began to run again. Quinley's legs were aching, and she had a severe pain in her side, but she kept moving in spite of her discomfort. She had to. She wasn't running for pleasure, or even to escape the rain. No, she was running to escape, running for her life.

She turned a corner and continued down the street, running toward l'Arc de Triomphe. A few more turns and she was on l'avenue Victor-Hugo, sprinting as fast as she could at the famous landmark. As she neared the monument to Napoleon's successful ego, three figures standing in La Place Charles de Gaulle slowly came into view. The one, a woman no older than Quinley, herself, had fiery red hair that was plastered to her forehead. The ginger wore a short skirt over dark tights and high top trainers. The other two people, both men, were harder to make out from the distance, but Quinley was almost positive one of them was wearing a red fez.

When she saw Quinley approaching, the ginger tugged on the fezzed man's sleeve, drawing his attention to the running girl. The closer she got to them, the more she could see through the mist. The man was, indeed, wearing a fez on his floppy dark hair, along with a crimson bowtie around his neck, a tweed jacket, and braces. He looked like a nerdy professor, but he seemed to enjoy his clothing, and exuded confidence, straightening his bowtie as she slowed to a stop in front of him. He opened his mouth to speak, but a voice from behind him cut him off.

"Quinn?" A man pushed his way in front of the Fez. He was the same age as Quinley—in fact, he had just turned twenty-three a few months prior—and his short, brown hair, almost awkwardly lanky build, and large nose were extremely familiar. "Quinley Smith?"

"Rory Williams," Quinley panted, attempting to catch her breath and inspecting her old friend. "What are you doing here?"

"Well… I… uh…" he stammered, running a hand through his rain soaked hair.

A loud crash behind her told Quinley she hadn't lost her pursuers. She groaned and glanced around quickly, searching for a decent way out.

"What's the matter?" the Fez questioned, watching her look around. Something in his pocket beeped, and he pulled it out. The machine looked like a television remote, only slightly larger, with a giant red light on the top. "Close. Very close. Amy, Rory-"

"Keep watch, don't blink. We know, Doctor," Amy, Rory's girlfriend, now wife, finished, turning toward the crash.

"Yes. Good." The man Amy called the Doctor turned. "Now, Quinley Smith, how are you still here?"

"What d'you mean? I ran."

"No. No, they should have caught you by now. Why haven't they caught you? Why are you still here?"

"I…" She coughed, throat raw from the heavy breathing, and shuffled her feet, wincing as her calves protested. She would have to rest for a long time to feel any relief from running. "Back on the avenue d'Eyleau, I sort of—I don't know—tricked them. It. Whatever."

"What? How?"

"Well, they were chasing me," Quinley said, feeling her legs begin to give. She slowly lowered herself to the soaked ground, feeling the rain hitting her both from above and below, bouncing off the ground and back up onto her legs.

"How long?" She squinted up at the Doctor, confused. He knelt beside her. "How long have they been chasing you?"

"Since the Passy Cemetery, I think. Dunno. I've been running from them practically all week."

"All week?" The Doctor mumbled, clearly thinking about something. "Sorry, interrupted you there. Continue."

"They were chasing me," resumed Quinley. "And every time I would look back, they would stop. Go back to being statues of angels. Creepy, snarling angels. As if looking at them makes them unable to move." The Doctor nodded, and Quinley could practically see the cogs of his brain turning as he thought. "I passed a little boutique that had some antique mirrors in the window. When I looked back, they weren't behind me, so I stopped to breathe. Soon, they were there, in front of me."

"What did you do?" Rory called over his shoulder.

"I looked at them and I moved," she answered. "Then I turned and got out of there. When I next looked, they were still there, captured by their own reflections in the mirror."

"Brilliant!" exclaimed the Doctor, cupping her cheek in his hand. "Bloody brilliant." The machine in his hand beeped again and he immediately turned to inspect it. "But why? What do they want with her?" he mumbled to himself while tinkering with the few buttons on his remote.

"If I may ask, Fez man, what's that?" Quinley raised an eyebrow at his hand holding the now constantly beeping machine.

"Rory, Amy, they're getting closer," he called before answering her. "I'm sorry? Fez man? Fezzes are cool. And it's a Timey Wimey Detector."

"Timey Wimey?"

"Or Wibbly, if you prefer."

"Oh. The Wibbly Machine. You know, I've heard of that," said Quinley sardonically. "What is it, though? Like a proximity detector set for the statue things?"

The Doctor looked shocked. "No, not at all. It's a piece of advanced technology that-" He was interrupted by the machine's beeping. Instead of many quick blips in rapid succession, the machine now emitted one long, singular droning. "Oh, that's exactly what it is."

"Doctor!" yelled Amy. "They're here!" Both the Doctor and Quinley turned to examine where she was pointing. There, at the intersection of l'avenue Victor-Hugo and le rue de Presbourg, stood four stone figures with wings, frozen in place.

"Oh, brilliant," muttered the Doctor. "Just bloody brilliant. We need to get out of here. Especially you, since we have no idea what they want with you."

"Isn't it obvious?" Rory questioned. "Amy, I'm blinking… now."

Quinley stood. "He's right. We need to leave."

"Rory, I'm going to blink… now." Amy's eyes closed and reopened quickly.

The Doctor walked a few steps away, tapping his chin with his Timey Wimey Device. Quinley tried to follow him, but, instead of cooperating, when she tried to move, her legs decided they had had enough movement and gave out. Quinley found herself back on the ground, water still splashing up and soaking her.

The Doctor noticed her plight and ran back, immediately throwing her arm over his neck. "Come on, Ponds, Miss Smith, we need to move."

"I can't," she announced. "I'm sorry."

"Sure you can. Amy keep your eyes on the angels. Rory, if you could… wait." Rory stopped mid-step. "Go back." Rory did as he was told and faced the angels again. "You said they had been chasing you all week." Quinley nodded and he lowered her gently so that she was sitting on the ground again. He moved to her side and sat in the water. "They should have gotten you by now. Why haven't they?"

"I don't know. But, before today, they were just on the sidelines, off the streets or on top of buildings. Always watching. Today was the first they ever came close to me."

The Doctor kneaded his eye sockets with his palms. "Today. Why today? What _is_ today?"

"The eleventh of July. Three days to le quatorze juillet." The Doctor took a bronze and silver tube from his pocket and pointed it at her. Four silver prongs extended, revealing a green light at the end, which he pointed at her eyes. "Oi! Stop pointing that thing at me."

"Why today?" he repeated, staring at the tube. "Oh no. No, no, no, no, no. Impossible." He stood and began to pace. "Well, completely possible. In fact, quite probable. Despicable, deplorable, but probable. In which case…" he trailed off, looking between Amy and Rory, then finally to Quinley. "We have to move." She opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off. "I know, but this, right here, we're being trapped. Amy," the Doctor called to the ginger. "Are any of the angels' mouths open?"

"Yeah," came the reply. "Two."

"Then it's begun. We need to get out of here and quickly. We need to get to La Place de la Porte Maillot. Quickly. Come on!" He grabbed Quinley's hands and pulled her to her feet; he dropped one, but kept her right securely grasped in his own, helping her to keep her balance. "Amy, Rory!" called the Doctor, spinning around, preparing to run. "Let's… oh my." There, on the edge of the mist, stood four more angels in the shadow of L'arc de Triomphe. "Keep looking at them," he instructed fiercely. "Don't blink. Don't turn your head. Don't get distracted. And whatever you do, don't look them in the eye. Fascinating race, the Weeping Angels." The Doctor squeezed her hand. "Only race to kill you gently."

"Somehow, I don't see how 'killing' and 'gently' can go in a sentence together."

"They send you back in time about—oh, I don't know—a hundred years or so, and let you live the rest of your life in the past. Then they feed on the energy of your life's potential greatness."

From above, a crack of thunder shook the ground. The sky flashed with lightning. The heavens opened up, and the rain fell harder. It hit the top of Quinley's head with a noticeable and almost painful 'plop'. She couldn't help thinking about the appropriateness of the weather—she was going to die, or as the Doctor put it, disappear, and the sky was enraged. Rain rolled down her face and into her eyes, but she didn't dare wipe it away. She was too terrified. She had to keep looking at the angels. Her life depended on it.

"What do they want?" questioned Quinley. "Why me? Why do they want me?"

"Because you're brilliant." The Doctor still had not let go of her hand, and she was grateful. She didn't trust herself to stand alone. Quinley was shaking, and she couldn't tell whether it was from overexertion, the cold of the rain, or the terror that gripped her and refused to let go. "And because I'm brilliant. They feed on temporal shifts, changes in a person's time stream that create great amounts of temporal energy. They've chased you all week to here, to this very spot. They've chased you to me."

Quinley thought the man sounded absolutely ridiculous, not to mention completely egotistical. Behind her, Amy and Rory were continuing their audible blinking system, reminding Quinley that she hadn't blinked in several minutes. She winked her eyes alternately, keeping one eye on the angels at all times. Finally, she spoke. "That sounds bloody ridiculous."

"Yet you're still listening."

Quinley ignored him. "But why chase me to you?"

"Because they wanted to trap you here. They wanted to see how I reacted to you. They're trapping you to create a paradox. They want to alter not only your time stream, but mine as well."

"But you said they take you back hundreds of years. You're barely thirty, let alone two hundred."

It was the Doctor's turn to ignore her. "I don't think they want to take you back a hundred years. They want to take you back six years. To 2005. They want to alter the past six years of my life, and everything that's happened or is happening, or will happen since."

"But, how?"

"If they make it so that you get to my past self before a certain woman does, they can change the life of nine people at least. That's enough temporal energy to feed an angel army, and it's not even including the energy they would get off the events that may not even happen, or would end differently." He looked at her, capturing her sapphire eyes in his own blue-green ones. "They would be able to survive forever, just from the energy created by one simple event."

"Oh."

"Oh is right."

"No. Doctor, who's looking at the angels?"

His eyes widened. "Oh." They both turned sharply. Standing less than a foot from them with outstretched arms were the four angels. The Doctor backed up a few steps, dragging Quinley along with him. "We really need to get out of this area. They aren't going to leave you alone unless you're out of this city. And even then…"

"They may never leave me alone," Quinley finished.

"Quite possibly. Wherever you go, wherever you are, you may see one of them, waiting for you. Most cases, they'll leave you alone, but, if you ever come to Paris again…"

"They'll be narked and attack?" He nodded. "Of course." Quinley sighed. "Watch them for a mo' would you?" The Doctor remained silent. Still clutching his hand, Quinley looked around at the city she loved so much. "Au revoir, Paris. Vous me manquerez. C'était amusant, mais maintenant je dois partir. Ne soyez pas triste. Vous ne devez pas pleurer. Sachez que je vous aime, que je vous ai toujours aimé, et que je vous aimerai toujours, quoi qu'il arrive. Soyez bonne. Soyez contente. Vous me manquerez." She mumbled her goodbye, feeling a little silly saying goodbye to a city, but she felt her eyes watering when she remembered what Paris meant to her, and she knew it wasn't from the torrent. She whispered to the Doctor. "Let's go."

He nodded and, still looking at the angels, led her around them. "Amy, Rory, keep looking at them, but move. We're leaving."

Quinley watched as they synced blinking one last time before stepping away, walking backwards toward the sound of the Doctor's voice. They were soaked to the bone, and Quinley could only imagine she was in a similar disarray: Clothes stuck to their skin, hanging in heavy folds, hair plastered to their heads. Amy's make-up was running, and Quinley was glad she hardly wore any.

As soon as Amy and Rory were a safe distance away, the Doctor pulled Quinley along, quickly breaking into a run. He led the three down l'Avenue de la Grand Armée toward La Place de la Porte Maillot. Quinley felt her legs protesting—tomorrow she would surely be unable to move at all—but she ran on, both because she was terrified of the angels and because the Doctor still had a firm grip on her hand. They soon passed the Rue d'Argentine, and Quinley counted off in her head: Three more intersections and they would be at La Place de la Porte Maillot, and the safety that the Doctor claimed was there.

Ahead, Quinley could make out five pale, statuesque figures standing in the mist at the edge of the rain. "Down here." She dragged the Doctor down the Rue Villaret de Joyeuse, ducking into the space between two apartment buildings. Amy and Rory followed, and soon, they were off again, sprinting between buildings. She led them toward the Rue Denis Poisson, but when they reached the open road, she turned north, ignoring the Doctor's protests of getting back to La Rue de la Grand Armée. Instead, she began a labyrinth of twists and turns through the buildings between the Rue Saint-Ferdinand and the Rue Débarcadère.

She slowed to a stop and, finally dropping the Doctor's hand, peeked her head around a building, looking to the Rue de la Grand Armée for any signs of the pursuing angels. "We're close," she announced. "And it looks like they aren't there yet."

"Let's hope it stays that way," added Amy, who was leaning against a brick wall.

The Doctor joined Quinley at the corner. "If we can just make it to there," he pointed toward a blue police box. "We'll be safe."

"Why? What's there?"

He ignored her. "Come on, Ponds." He grabbed Quinley's hand again. "Just a bit more." He took off, Quinley trailing behind him, Amy and Rory behind her, all running for the bright blue box.

Quickly, they got there, and, once again, Quinley's hand was dropped as the Doctor worked to unlock the box. While he patted down his pockets, looking for the key, Quinley inspected the box. Amy and Rory were facing opposite directions, on the watch for the moving statues. The box was wooden, with paneled windows on each face. At the top, repeated all the way around were the words 'POLICE PUBLIC CALL BOX,' lit up for all to see.

From above, Quinley heard the noise of wings. Ignoring it, thinking it was birds coming back out in the wavering rain, Quinley continued to circle the box. She came to the plane the Doctor was facing, still fishing for his keys. "So, what? We're just going to wait it out in here?" The Doctor nodded, looking up. His eyes went wide. "What?" He waved frantically for her to come to him. Confused, she obeyed. "What's the matter?" Then, she noticed it. An angel, standing exactly where she had just been, its arms outstretched, ready to grab her. Had the Doctor not looked when he did, she would have disappeared.

Suddenly, Quinley collapsed in the Doctor's arms. Whether from stress, fatigue, or shock, she was unsure, but she felt lightheaded and nauseated. In a moment of epiphany, the Doctor snapped his fingers, and the doors of the box opened. He draped her legs over his arms and picked Quinley up, carrying her into the box. Amy and Rory were suddenly there with them. The Doctor snapped again and the doors shut.


	2. Chapter 2

The Doctor helped her ease into a plush captain's chair, and, when he was sure she wouldn't fall over, pulled out his bronze and silver tube, using it to scan her again.

"Doctor," began Rory tentatively. "If you don't mind, I think maybe I should look at her. You know, nurse?"

"Oh. Right." The Doctor backed away and Rory took his place, feeling her forehead and shining a torch in her eyes.

"You've done quite a bit of running," Rory observed. "I think she's just exhausted. Get some sleep, Quinn." He smiled gently and patted her cheek, going back over to Amy. "We're going to bed, I think, Doctor. See you in the morning."

The Doctor waved, messing with a few buttons on a panel in the center of the room. Quinley blinked, attempting to clear her spinning head. She had entered a box a few minutes ago. Now, here she was, in a giant console room. Cautiously, she turned her head. The room was huge. Three stairwells led from the main room off into different parts of the box. The entire room was bathed in an amber light, which seemed to originate in the circular holes in the metal walls. The floor below was glass, and metal support beams turned it into a web beneath her.

"Go ahead. You can say it," remarked the Doctor, who was smiling. "Everyone does, and I can assure you, I've heard them all."

"We're not in a box," Quinley responded. "There's no way this is a box."

The Doctor's face fell. "That is, admittedly, new."

"And, if we aren't in a box," she continued. "Where are we?"

"The TARDIS!" he announced happily. "Bigger on the inside, queen of the Wibbly Wobbly and Timey Wimey." The main console hummed warmly. "She welcomes you." Quinley smiled, unsure of what to say, and shifted in the chair. She winced, muscles aching from running. "Hm." The Doctor listened as the TARDIS hummed again. "Yes, I think it's possible…" Then, as if remembering she were in the room, he bounded over to her. "Would you like to go sit in the Turkish bath?"

"You have a Turkish bath in this thing?"

"She has a lot of rooms," he responded. "Would you like to go? It may help your legs."

After a second of consideration, Quinley nodded. "Hot water sounds lovely right now."

* * *

Quinley eased herself into the frothing waters of the Jacuzzi, feeling her legs practically sigh in relief. The Doctor had showed her to the wardrobe, where she had borrowed a swimsuit, and then to the swimming pool, which housed the Turkish bath, as well. The walk through the TARDIS would have been long, but the Doctor knew his way around well, despite his claim that the rooms all moved around once in a while.

The Doctor had excused himself in search of towels, but, as that had been fifteen minutes ago, Quinley grew worried that he would never return. Finally, though, he reentered, two fluffy blue towels in his arms. He wore a pair of dark blue and brown plaid shorts in place of his black pressed trousers. "Care if I join you?" he questioned, sitting the towels on one of the teak chaises.

"Be my guest." Quinley drew circles in the froth as the Doctor unbuttoned his blue, seemingly woolen shirt. She glanced up when the water moved, and couldn't help but notice his slightly defined muscles. She turned away, however, until he was fully submerged, both allowing him privacy and not wanting to stare.

"Rory says you went to university together," the Doctor opened, touching a panel on the edge of the water and turning the jets up higher.

"Only for two years. We had a few general classes together, and we did a few of the same extracurriculars. Third year, though, I transferred to Warwick and he stayed at Gloucestershire. Didn't really see him much after that."

"And Amy?"

She shrugged sheepishly. "I knew she was there, but she wasn't there at college. Today was the first I met her."

Sensing the awkward turn the conversation had taken, the Doctor changed the subject. "Why were you in Paris?"

"It's a long story."

"We have time." He grinned. "Trust me, we have all the time in the world."

"Well, back in primary school, someone decided it would be a good idea for us to have pen pals; one would be in the language we studied—French for me—the other, English. Both of mine were great. My English one was my age. Sweet girl. Rose, her name was. She and I kept in contact, but in 2005, her letters just stopped. Rumour is, she died a few years ago." The Doctor's eyes were wide, but he said nothing. "My other correspondent, the French one, was also nice. We've taken turns visiting each other every once in a while, and I always come to Paris for le quatorze juillet." Quinley sighed. "I guess I'll miss it this year." The Doctor sat in silence, his brow furrowed in thought. "What's that look for?"

"What 'look'?" he questioned absently, clearly still lost in his thoughts.

"The 'thinking of a plan' look."

"I do not have a 'thinking of a plan' look."

"Yes, you do. And you're doing it right now."

"Well, it could be because I just thought of a plan."

"A plan?" She smiled. "It _is_ the 'thinking of a plan' look." He sent her a look that said 'I'm about to say something brilliant that you're going to love, but if you don't shut up, I'm not going to tell you'. Immediately, she quieted.

"Currently, we're on a course to drop Amy and Rory back in London. If you want, we can come back to Paris and apologize to your friend, and you can spend the holiday here."

Quinley looked confused. "But, I thought you said I could never go back to Paris."

"I did. I changed my mind." He grinned. "Plus, you'd be accompanied by me, so you'd be safe." Quinley heard him mutter under his breath. "Relatively."

For a long while, the only sound was the gurgling and plopping of the jets creating the constant foamy water. When at last Quinley spoke again, her question caught the Doctor off guard. "Who _are_ you, Doctor?"

"I'm the Doctor."

She dissected the word. "Doctor. Healer. Mender. Teacher." He nodded. "Doctor is a title, not a name."

He sighed and repeated, "I'm the Doctor."

Unsatisfied, Quinley tried a different approach. "Currently, to me, you are a madman in a box. What else are you, Doctor? Why do you have a bigger-on-the-inside TARDIS? What _are _you?"

This time, he smiled deviously. "If there's one thing you need to know about me, it's that I am _definitely_ a madman in a box. As for what I am... you wouldn't believe me."

"You aren't human," she guessed.

"No." Even though she had known it to be true, Quinley was still surprised.

"You're the Doctor. And you're not human."

"Correct."

"So, if you're not human, what are you?"

The Doctor remained silent, running his hand across the surface of the water. His message was clear: That was quite enough question/answer for the day.

* * *

Quinley sat at a small circular table across from the Doctor at Le Sancerre, nursing an espresso and pain du chocolat. They were free for the day, as Quinley's Parisian pen pal, Alice, worked at a small law firm in the south of the city. She half listened as the Doctor rambled on about his plans for the day. They had been in the city for less than a day, and the Doctor had big ideas about how he wanted to spend his three days in the city of lights.

"…the Eiffel Tower—or tour Eiffel, if you prefer. Then, I thought we could go to the Louvre. Love the Louvre. Alice should be off work by then, you can text her and tell her to meet us there." Quinley tuned him out, paying more attention to the transvestite and his boyfriend at the table across from them. They weren't saying anything, but based on the way they looked at each other, she could tell they were in love.

That was one of the things she loved about Paris. No matter who you were, how you dressed, or even what you looked like, you could come to Paris with the person you cared most about, and immediately be accepted. Parisians didn't care. As long as you didn't interfere with their daily lives or their culture, you were fine with them.

"…could come see the lights of the city. They're brilliant, you know. Love the lights."

A serveuse drew Quinley out of her thoughts. "Excusez-moi, mademoiselle. Would you and your husband care for a refill?"

"Oui, merci," Quinley responded, not catching her comment about her marital status.

As she was filling the glasses, the Doctor whispered. "We aren't together."

"J'suis désolée, monsieur," the serveuse apologized.

As soon as she walked away, the Doctor resumed his rambling. "Tomorrow, then, we can-"

"Doctor," Quinley interrupted. "Let's just take it a day at a time, yeah?" He nodded. "Good."

"What's wrong?" he questioned, brow furrowing.

"What? Nothing's wrong."

"Something's wrong."

"What makes you say that?"

"You haven't been paying attention. And that just isn't like you."

"You hardly know me." Quinley crossed her arms and sat back in her chair.

"No, but I do know you're observant. If you weren't, you wouldn't have figured out how to escape the angels."

Quinley remained silent, staring at her reflection in the murky surface of her espresso. Finally, she answered, not looking at him. "I don't trust easily, Doctor."

"I would expect not."

"But, for some reason, I trust you." She sipped her espresso casually. "Don't make me regret it." Suddenly, she leaned over and grabbed his wrist, turning it so that she could see the face of his watch. Nearly nine thirty. "Well, come on, then. L'Arc de Triomphe, yeah?"

Surprised, the Doctor nodded. "Yeah. Proper viewing this time. No running away from it. Straight to the top. You have to see the view. Love the view." Quinley chuckled at his enthusiasm. She didn't have the heart to tell him she had been to the top many times before.

They hopped on the blue line and twenty minutes later, Quinley and the Doctor were standing at the top of l'Arc de Triomphe, the city spread out below them. Quinley couldn't help conjuring up an image of a child and their block village while staring out across the city, the wind gently breathing across her hair. Since they boarded the metro, the Doctor hadn't let her out of arm's reach, and even standing at the top of the arch, her arm was laced through his.

"It's _covered_ in statues!" Was his argument. "You never know what is an angel and what isn't until you're standing in the past."

So, there they stood, at the top of l'Arc de Triomphe, in the most romantic city on Earth, arm in arm, looking down at the streets of Paris. The Doctor insisted upon taking a few pictures of them with the Eiffel Tower stretching into the sky behind them on Quinley's phone. Quinley found herself having fun in spite of the fact she had been to the top of the arch four times previously, and mentally noted that the Doctor's unbridled enthusiasm and childlike wonder could make almost any situation an enjoyable one. Quinley was almost glad the Doctor had insisted on climbing the stairs to the top. The view was absolutely magnificent. Below, the twelve streets radiated from the arch. People and cars looked like ants marching to food. Buildings seemed small and insignificant. From the arch, it was possible to see almost all of Paris.

Finally, they descended back to the ground and got on the green line. In a little over a half hour, they were standing at the top of the most iconic structure in Paris: La tour Eiffel. They had taken the elevator to the very top viewing platform, where they now stood, completely overlooking the now dwarfed city. The Doctor had insisted on buying glasses of champagne at the bar, and, even though he seemed to hate the taste, he sipped his bubbly drink slowly, relishing being on top of Paris's most magnificent monument.

Quinley had gotten used to being attached to his arm, and somewhat even enjoyed it. She enjoyed listening to him talk, pointing out random facts.

"If you were to fly straight that way," he had said at one point, motioning straight ahead. "You would smack right into the two on Big Ben's south most face."

"Over there," he pointed in a different direction. "The Paris Opera. I saw La Carlotta there once. Lovely show. Love the Opera."

Another time, he pointed to the sky and whispered in her ear. "If you were to get in a spaceship and fly for, oh I don't know, about 250 million light-years, you'd crash land in the domed citadel of my home planet."

"Which is?"

"Gallifrey." He rushed to the railing, then, and pointed out all the landmarks of the city in alphabetical order. Clearly, he was uncomfortable talking about his home—the mysterious Gallifrey.

**Hope you enjoyed the second chapter. I'm really excited about this story, and I have lots of ideas. Please, though, be patient with me. School just started up again, so I don't know how often I'll be able to write or update. Don't give up just because I haven't updated in a few weeks. I promise, I will eventually! Thanks for reading, and don't be afraid to review!**


	3. Chapter 3

It was almost five when Quinley and the Doctor exited the Louvre. Outside, people mulled about the paved courtyard, gawking in wonder at the giant glass pyramid and taking pictures in front of the antique palace. Quinley and the Doctor sat on the edge of the fountain, where he insisted upon taking another picture.

Then, a blonde stood in front of them, staring at the two. "Quinley," she greeted, French accent muddling her speech.

"Salut, Alice!" Quinley greeted, kissing her friend on the cheek. "How was work?"

Alice rolled her eyes, ignoring the question. "Who is your handsome friend?"

Quinley glanced nervously at the Doctor. "Alice this is-"

"Hello, I'm John."

"John," Alice greeted pleasantly.

"John?" Quinley stared at the man incredulously.

"Are you enjoying the city so far?" Alice asked the Doctor, who nodded excitedly. "Bon. Have you seen la tour Eiffel yet?" Again, the Doctor nodded. "You got nice pictures?" Quinley was sure his head was going to pop off from so much nodding. "Mais, you have not seen it at night?"

"It's our first day here," responded the Doctor.

"Bon. We shall see it tonight." Alice turned to Quinley, lacing their arms. "What kept you so long this year, mon amie? You're usually here days in advanced. Le quatorze juillet is tomorrow."

"Désolée. John and I had a few… things to do before we came."

"Bien sûr." Alice patted her arm. "You are staying with me, non?" Quinley smiled. "Bon. Although, I only have one guest room. You will just have to share."

* * *

"Alice, that was wonderful," commented Quinley, helping her friend to clear the dining room table after dinner. The French woman had made French onion soup and quiche Lorraine, Quinley's favorite French meal, for them.

"Merci, mon amie," Alice replied, stacking the dishes in her dish washer. "I believe John enjoyed it, as well."

"I'd say," Quinley glanced at the man sitting on the floor of the salon, attempting to play with Alice's cat.

Noticing her friend's look, Alice smiled. "Go to him, mon amie. I'll be out toute de suite."

Nodding, Quinley left the kitchen and walked into the salon, sliding onto the floor beside the Doctor. He had removed his tweed jacket and now sat in his black pressed trousers, woolen red shirt, bowtie, and braces. His hair was ruffled slightly from running his hand through it, and his brow was furrowed.

"I think the cat is broken," he announced, dangling the string he was toying with in front of the cat's nose. "It's refusing to play. I've never seen a cat that can resist string, and I've met a whole race of them."

Quinley rolled her eyes and reached under the couch, grabbing the green jingle ball that almost constantly resided there. Immediately, the cat perked up, black fuzzy ears pointing in Quinley's direction, bright yellow eyes fixated on the ball in her hand. "D'you want the ball, Chester?" Chester wagged his tail and Quinley rolled the ball toward him. He pounced, rolling across the salon's wooden floor in pursuit of the jingling ball.

A few hours later, Quinley led the Doctor up the stairs of Alice's apartment to the guest bedroom. "She only has one," she explained. "But I have no problem sleeping on the floor."

"What? No!" The Doctor protested, following her into the room.

The walls were a powder blue colour, and were adorned with pictures of the world's most famous landmarks. Pictures of the Pyramids of Giza hung beside photographs of London's House of Parliament and New York's Empire State Building. The Taj Mahal was surrounded by Niagara Falls and the LaBrea Tar Pits. On the two side tables stood pictures of the Grand Canal in Venice, Stonehenge, the Aurora Borealis, and the Leaning Tower of Pisa. The bed itself was rather large, with an ornately decorated headboard and blue cased plush pillows.

"No," the Doctor repeated. "We're adults." He sat on the bed and patted the plush surface. "We share."

"You're positive?" He nodded. "Fine."

That night, Quinley couldn't sleep. She was confined to a small area of the bed without blankets. The Doctor had stolen them all within the first fifteen minutes of his slumber, and after that, he had slowly encroached upon her territory. Finally, she decided she had had enough and, grabbing her pillow, rolled onto the floor.

* * *

"Move closer together," instructed Alice. "I will take your picture." Quinley and the Doctor did as they were told. He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her into his side. Behind them, the Eiffel Tower was alight, all golden and glowing against a nearly black sky. The celebration for le quatorze juillet would be starting very soon. Every year on 14 July, the city of Paris put off the most spectacular fireworks display in celebration of France's independence from the crown. They would blare La Marseillaise from every sound system in a seventeen block radius, and everyone in the city seemed to sing together the song of their freedom.

In the distance, the bells of Notre Dame de Paris chimed ten. The final chime lingered in the air before the lights of the Eiffel Tower and the surrounding area suddenly went off. When the tower came back on again, it was lit in red and blue, a shower of white sparks behind it on the pond. The French Tricolour in all its glory. The trumpeted introduction of the national anthem began and the pyrotechnics went off to the crash of the cymbals. Then, the entire city was filled with the pre-recorded voices of the National Choir and the first verse of La Marseillaise.

The trumpets blared off again, the fireworks not stopping. The National Choir sang two more verses before the explosions reached a feverish beat. With one last trumpet cadence, the whole of Paris erupted in patriotism and song. The first verse repeated, and, in that moment, everyone in Paris, everyone in France, was connected in singing the simplistic tune.

_Allons, enfants de la Patrie, le jour de gloire est arrivé !  
__Contre-nous de la tyrannie, l'étendard sanglant est levé !  
__Entendez-vous dans nos campagnes, mugir ces féroces soldats ?  
__Ils viennent jusque dans vos bras.  
__Egorger vos fils, vos compagnes !_

_Aux armes, citoyens !  
__Formez vos bataillons !  
__Marchez, marchez, qu'un sang impur.  
__Abreuve vos sillons !_

_Aux armes, citoyens !  
__Formez vos bataillons !  
__Marchons, marchons, qu'un sang impur.  
__Abreuve nos sillons !_

Even though she wasn't French, not even remotely, Quinley joined in the singing. She loved the country; she loved Paris. Why shouldn't she express that? Beside her, still with an arm wrapped around her waist, she could hear the Doctor humming the tune.

With one final flourish of the trumpets and a final, deafening 'BANG!' the celebration was over. The lights on the tower went out before resuming their usual golden glow. The next day, all of France would go back to its normal, mostly apathetic, self. The crowd began to disperse, but Quinley, Alice, and the Doctor stayed where they were.

"That was better than last year, non?" Alice questioned Quinley.

She agreed. "I never thought I'd see the day. I didn't think they could top last year's."

"Alice!" A man across the crowd waved.

"I will meet you back at my home," said Alice, starting to drift towards the waving man. "Take your time."

The Doctor and Quinley moved slowly with the crowd, meandering forward into the night and the brightly lighted streets of Paris. When it was open enough, they moved apart, the Doctor's hand unconsciously dropping to intertwine with Quinley's own. They continued on in silence for a few blocks, until she finally spoke.

"There's been something I've been meaning to ask you for the past two days, but I haven't been able to find the time."

"And what would that be?"

"All this time, we've been talking, and you've spoken to Alice, you even gave some bloke directions in the metro!" At the memory, the Doctor chuckled. "I've been speaking French the entire time. So has Alice. And the rest of the city. You respond in French."

"Of course I respond in French. What would I respond in? Judoon? Silurian? Sltharro?" He thought better of his words. "Don't answer that."

"You speak French, though?"

"I speak every language, including baby."

"I see."

"You believe me? You don't find that strange?"

Quinley shook her head. "Not at all. In fact, I find it interesting. Is it because you're alien? From—what was it?—Galifrey?"

"Sort of." The Doctor swung their hands back and forth gently, beginning to subconsciously rub circles into the back of her hand with his thumb. "It's because of the TARDIS. You can, as well, I suppose. Once you've been inside her, she links up with your inner consciousness, and Bob's your uncle, you can speak every language in the universe. Including baby."

Suddenly, a cold had gripped Quinley's right shoulder and she froze. She turned to the Doctor, finding him in a similar state. Then, the world around her went black and she collapsed, her hand still clasping the Doctor's.

When Quinley awoke, she was laying on her back. Her head ached terribly, but other than that she was fine. She managed to sit up, her head in her hands, and look around. She was in a large paved yet wooded area. The same paved yet wooded area she had been in when she had fallen unconscious. Her eyes shot open and she turned her head frantically scanning around in the morning light. Her eyes finally fell to rest on what she was looking for.

The Doctor lay beside her, his tweed jacket splayed out around him, bowtie askew, hair mussed from the fall. He looked fine. She moved so that she was sitting on her knees beside him and patted his cheek. "Doctor," she whispered. "Doctor, wake up." His head lolled to the side, but he did not wake. "Doctor!" Still nothing. It was clear words were not going to work, so she resorted to more drastic means of waking the man.

She leaned over him and, ever so gently, pressed her lips to his own. After a few seconds, his eyes shot open and she pulled back, her mission successful. His cheeks tinted pink, he cautiously wiped his mouth with his sleeve as he took in their surroundings.

"We're still in Paris?" he questioned.

Quinley turned around. The Eiffel Tower stood just behind them. "I'd say, yeah."

"Good. Now, the question is, _when_ are we?" He stood and began to walk away. Quinley had no choice but to follow him.

"What do you mean_ when_ are we?"

"We were attacked by the Weeping Angels," mumbled the Doctor, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. "They've sent us back in time." He indicated a newspaper in one of the store fronts. "10 August _1974._"

"Oh, wonderful," Quinley mumbled, glancing at the headline of the paper. "Bloody wonderful." She looked down at her clothes. Her jeans clung to her legs, her black converse were dirty, and her shirt, a green and black plaid button up. They were definitely not time-period appropriate, but she was glad they weren't transported back any farther in time. "How are we going to get back?" she questioned the Doctor, following him as he continued to walk. He remained silent. "Doctor, how are we going to get back to 2011?" When, again, he was silent, she grabbed his wrist, spinning him around. "We _are_ getting back, aren't we?"

"Yes," he began. "But, I need to think of a plan. We know no one here, and it'll be almost impossible to find people that came the same way we did. Oh, I am a stupid, stupid Time Lord." He dug through the pockets of his tweed jacket and removed his bronze and silver tube and his Timey Wimey Detector. "We _can_."

"Time Lord?" Quinley fixated on the words. "Is that what you are? A Time Lord?" The Doctor nodded, flicking a switch on his Timey Wimey Detector to turn it on. "Are there more Time Lords? Other crazy men who travel in blue police boxes?"

"No," answered the Doctor simply, using his bronze and silver tube on the Timey Wimey Detector.

"What _is_ that thing?"

"Sonic screwdriver. Aha!" The Timey Wimey Detector began to beep softly and slowly. "Good. Let's go."

Quinley followed the Doctor across the city, the beeping of the Timey Wimey Detector gradually getting louder and quicker as they got closer to their target. At last, near the Moulin Rouge in Montmartre, the drone of the machine became solid. They were close. The Doctor pointed it at each person on the street. It lit up at a man sitting on a bench, staring at a newspaper. Cautiously, the two approached.

"Excusez-moi, Monsieur," the Doctor began, sitting beside the man. "May we talk to you?"

The man looked up. He was bedraggled and it was clear he had gotten little sleep; the bags under his eyes seemed to go on forever. "Yes?" Then he noticed Quinley. He stared at her jeans. "Madame, you are not from around here, are you?"

"No, I'd say not." She nodded at his green and pink polo shirt. "But, then again, neither are you."

"No, Madame, I'm not," he acquiesced. "I don't know how I got here."

As the Doctor explained what to do to the man, who had introduced himself as Steven, Quinley borrowed a pen, paper and an envelope from one of the street vendors. The Doctor had instructed her to write a note to Alice, explaining where to find the TARDIS and to look for another message from them before going to the blue box. The Doctor then told Steven how to find Alice.

"You can't forget to do this, Steven," the Doctor repeated for the third time. "Remember Alice Debourg. What day?"

"15 July, 2011."

"Good." He licked the envelope to seal it and handed it to Steven. "Here. Remember: in thirty-seven years, you need to deliver this."

"What if I die before then?" asked Steven, licking his lips nervously.

"Then you have your son to deliver it. It is of great importance that this letter gets to Alice Debourg. Do you understand?" Steven nodded. "Good." The Doctor grabbed Quinley's hand. "Goodbye, Steven."

Quinley followed the Doctor for a few blocks before pulling him back. "Okay, care to fill me in on what the hell we're going to do?"

"Believe it or not," he began angrily. "I've done this before. There are some things I need to do. What I need you to do is compile a list of Alice's five favorite movies."

"She's only seen two. And they're from 2009."

"Her five favorite records, then. I'll have to get creative this time."

"What?"

"Nothing. Go find the records." Quinley stared at him for a moment, sapphire eyes scanning his face. "What?"

"Nothing. Five favorite records. Got it."

She began to walk away, but the Doctor called her back. "No, you're staying with me. This is something we need to do together."


	4. Chapter 4

At long last, the Doctor's plan was complete. He insisted that it was a modification on a plan he had used when he was in a similar situation, but Quinley wasn't so sure. He had issues with the records, as he insisted on creating 'Easter Eggs' on every one of them—it was always the same message—pleading for Alice to help, describing how to get into the TARDIS, and what to do once she was inside. He had spent a day and a half just writing the coding for the records; from what she understood, it was something that would only show up on the CDs that were copies of the records, and would allow the TARDIS to fly to 1974 unmanned.

"You're sure this'll work?" Quinley questioned. Somehow, she just didn't believe him. She was unsure of the reliability of both Steven and the Doctor's self-proclaimed genius CDs.

"It worked before," countered the Doctor, who was attempting to rig his Timey Wimey Detector so that it monitored changes in the TARDIS's position.

They sat at a table outside of Le Sancerre, the same one they sat at three days prior, but the café had changed drastically. Instead of the classically charming 1930s style café, Le Sancerre was loud and obnoxious, with early rock music blaring from a radio inside. Both Quinley and Doctor were holding greasy menus. The Doctor, lamenting the fact that the café's menu didn't include banana daiquiris in their liquor list, took to grumbling about how limes and apples were popular drink flavors, but the poor, lonely banana was neglected. Quinley, on the other hand, was distraught about the lack of food on the menu. She was used to the sprawling menu of the 21st century, which included her favorite Montmartre food, Le Troisieme Burgers. The menu in her hand barely included crêpes.

When the serveuse came around to take their order, Quinley took the liberty of ordering for the still grumbling Doctor. Minutes later, she returned, carrying two crêpes—one banana, the other strawberry—and left.

"So, I'm assuming no more Paris, then?" joked Quinley, folding and cutting her thin French pancake.

"No." The Doctor laughed. "No more Paris."

A few moment of silence passed before Quinley spoke again. "So, what are we going to do until Alice can get the TARDIS here?"

"We could go see the Notre Dame…" he began, vaulting himself into another long-winded tirade. Yet again, Quinley tuned him out, choosing to listen in on a conversation between a man and woman behind her.

"It _is_ strange," the woman was saying. "But perhaps Paris is finally attempting to make the streets safer."

"By putting boxes on street corners?" the man questioned incredulously, chuckling. "What? Are the thieves and murderers just going to lock themselves in them?"

"I do not know. But it is a phone box. Maybe the purpose is to be able to access the police easier."

"But in the middle of the Luxembourg Gardens!"

Quinley was so invested in their conversation, she didn't notice the Doctor had stopped talking until he poked her in the forehead. "You're doing it again," he pointed out. "Ignoring me. I'm being absolutely brilliant and witty and you're not even listening. Why do I keep you around?"

"You weren't being witty," Quinley countered. "You were rambling about Notre Dame." He was about to protest when she stood. "Come on, Time Lord. We've got a TARDIS to retrieve."

"What?" he followed her away from the café. "What are you talking about?" Suddenly, the Timey Wimey detector was in his hand. "If the TARDIS were anywhere near us, this would be going mad."

"That's because it's nowhere near here."

"Well, then, where is it?"

"About five kilometers away. Le Jardin du Luxembourg."

"Well, how'd it end up there?" the Doctor questioned aloud. Quinley assumed it was rhetorical, and, as she had no answer, led the Doctor south.

It took them an hour, but the two finally arrived at the Luxembourg Gardens. There, the Doctor insisted on using the Timey Wimey TARDIS Detector to find the blue box, though it was nowhere near necessary. The time machine was easy to find: It sat beside the garden's main fountain and was the center of a small group of tourists' attention.

The Doctor beamed and ran up to his blue box, successfully frightening off the tourists that were attempting to take pictures of the English police box in the French gardens. Quinley followed after a time, and together, they entered the box. The inside hadn't changed, it was still orange, and the console was still a hodgepodge of buttons and levers.

A few steps into the TARDIS, an image of the Doctor appeared in front of the stairs. "Hello, handsome," it greeted, seemingly looking at the Doctor. "Nothing new to report. Unmanned flight successful. Left Alice back in 2011, I'm afraid. But she's safe. I think. Anyway, Paris is strictly off limits." The image disappeared.

"What was that?" questioned Quinley, who plopped herself into the leather captain's chair, watching as the Doctor pressed and pulled and spun things on the console.

"Artificially intelligent security hologram," he answered simply. "I programmed it into the records."

"Of course you did. Did you program it to feed your already bloated ego, too?"

He smiled wickedly. "No. I programmed it to tell the truth. Let's get us back to the future, shall we?" At the realization of what he said, he giggled. Sharply, the Doctor pulled a lever on the TARDIS's console and it began to make noise and shake.

"Is it supposed to do that?" Quinley questioned, hanging onto the chair for her life.

"Of course. It did it the last time. Don't you remember?"

"The last time, you had two heads and there were three Rorys," she pointed out.

The Doctor ignored her, messing with the controls. The TARDIS stopped shaking and the noise stopped. "Now, where to? We had our fun in the past. How about a little jaunt in the future?"

"Hold on, Casanova." Quinley stood, pressing a hand to his chest. "You've gotten me almost killed by rabid angel statues. Twice. And you expect me to follow you off to wherever you fancy?"

"Well, sort of, yeah."

"I don't even know you!"

"You know enough."

"Oh?" She crossed her arms.

"I'm the Doctor. I'm a Time Lord, from the planet Gallifrey, which is a long way away from here." He pulled up an image of the planet on the screen hanging above the console. "Anything else?"

"How old are you?" she asked. In hindsight, it seemed childish and silly to be asking his age; however, he looked so young, yet his eyes held the solemnity and wisdom that only came from old age.

"Nine hundred and nine," he admitted softly.

Though she wasn't expecting him to be young, she had not imagined the Doctor to be that old. He had aged well, she had to admit. She hid her shock, however. "And you still dress like that? Apparently, they don't teach you to have a sense of fashion in Time Lord School." She looked him up and down, taking in his clothing choices.

"Oi! What's wrong with how I dress?"

"Tweed jacket?" She playfully tugged at his sleeve.

"It's comfortable and has a lot of pockets."

"Braces?" She pulled one and let it snap back to his body.

"To keep the trousers from falling. I do a lot of running, you know."

"Your boots."

"Are comfortable, and practical," he insisted, before repeating, "I do a lot of running."

She poked him just above his chest, in the center of his tie. "And a bowtie?"

"Yes, I wear a bowtie. Bowties are cool." As if to emphasize his point, he tugged at either end, straightening it. Quinley rolled her eyes, shaking her head. "What? You don't like my bowtie?"

"No, it's not that." She chuckled a bit. "It's just… you look a bit like a nutty professor."

"I happen to like how I dress." After a second, he changed the subject, seemingly bored with the topic of his clothing. "So, what do you say? Planets." Quinley raised an eyebrow. "Wanna see some?"

"Shouldn't you be getting back to Amy and Rory?" She walked back to the captain's chair and curled up.

Immediately, his happy demeanor faded. "I tend to leave them alone, nowadays. You know, married life and whatnot. It's better that way."

"Why would it be better that way? You claim to have so much fun."

"We do! They need to have lives, though, right? Can't just wander the universe forever. Have to settle down some time. Get a real job. Own a house. Have a car. Bills and the sort."

"Doctor, I think I should like to go home."

"What?" He looked hurt. "Oh. Well, yes. Of course." He pulled her into a hug, kissing her forehead. "Live a normal life. Can't say I blame you for it. Don't mind traveling on my own. I'll see Rory and Amy soon, anyway. Three companions… I've never had three before, don't know how it would've worked out. Probably wouldn't. Yeah, I'll be fine. Being on my own isn't so bad. Go where I want, when I want. Don't have to worry about someone else running off or…" He pulled away, looking sheepish. "And you basically meant you wanted to pop off for a visit and come back, didn't you?"

"Yeah."

"Of course." He grinned and patted her cheek, going back to the console.

"If that's not a problem," Quinley added, half-skipping to the console.

"No. None at all." The Doctor ran around, pressing buttons and pulling levers. The TARDIS began to shake again, throwing Quinley off balance. The Doctor was suddenly beside her, and arm around her waist to help her stand. "Press that button," he instructed, pointing to a blinking yellow circle in the middle of the panel. "And hold it down until I say." He ran to the other side, shouting, "And hold on!"


	5. Chapter 5

"Hey, Quin!" The voice of a man blared out of the answer phone. "It's Jase, but… I guess you already knew that. Anyway. Me and a bunch of the guys are playing football on the sixteenth, and we need another player. I know, you prefer to watch, but… I dunno… maybe you know someone who can fill in? It's just for that one match, and maybe another later in the season, but…" Jason sighed. Quinley could almost hear him running a hand through his ginger hair. "Gimme a call if you know anyone."

"Oh, come on, then," called Quinley to the Doctor, who was standing on the patio awkwardly. After not seeing him in months, he had just appeared there, TARDIS parked in the yard. "You can come in. There's no one else here."

"No one?" he questioned incredulously. "No flat mates? No family? No one?"

"No one," she repeated. "Just me." She plopped down on the settee and began to scroll through her contacts on her phone. "Why do I know no one that wants to play football?"

"Football? I like football. Well, I don't quite know if I like it, but I'm fairly decent at it, I think."

Quinley stared at him, watching the Doctor pick up a picture frame and other tchotchkes, inspecting them before replacing them in their rightful spots. "You are?"

He nodded. "Played once on a pub-league with my mate Craig."

"Well, would you like to play again?"

He smiled. "Love football."

"Perfect."

* * *

Quinley stood at the edge of the crowd, watching as her friend Jason introduced the Doctor to the rest of the football team. She was shocked. Around Amy, Rory, and herself, the Doctor was a complete goofball, going off on rambling tangents that made no sense most of the time and tripping over air. But, in front of the guys, the Doctor was just a normal bloke who played football. Jason had made him do a short game of keep-ups to make sure the Doctor was half-way decent, but had stopped the game at fifty-seven.

Proudly, the Doctor jogged over to Quinley on the sidelines. He adjusted his shirt—green, with the number 11 emblazoned on the back—and grinned wildly. "Playing football," he announced. "Like a normal bloke."

"Who'd have thought?"

"Who'd have thought is right!" He cupped her cheek for a brief moment, blue-green eyes twinkling with delight, before running off to join the rest of the team.

A few minutes later, the match started, and Quinley, despite having Jason, who knew everything there was to know about the sport, was completely lost. She hated most sports, and hated playing all of them, but she loved watching football; she just had no idea what was going on most of the time. She knew only enough to clap and cheer when a goal was scored by Jason and the Doctor's team, Southwark, and to get angry when the referee called something against the team.

The Doctor hadn't been lying when he said he was good at football. Not only was he quick on his feet, something Quinley had learned quickly running from the Weeping Angels in Paris, but his thin, wiry frame helped him to weave in and out of the other players on the field, allowing him to get the ball easier. He had laser-like precision, and scored the majority of Southwark's six goals. The match was close, but in the end, Southwark came out victorious, winning the match 6-4.

The team swarmed the Doctor, hoisting the scrawny man to their shoulders and chanting, "Doctor! Doctor!" They made a lap around the field before sitting the Doctor back on his feet in front of Quinley. He enveloped her in a hug, twirling her around once before letting go.

"You were brilliant!" commended Quinley. "Absolutely bloody brilliant."

He beamed, patting her cheek as Jason approached. "Hey, we're going for a pint and burgers. You two wanna come?"

Quinley looked to the Doctor, who shrugged. "Pint and burgers sounds great."

* * *

The Doctor did not drink. Quinley discovered this after Jason and the rest of the team were on their fourth pint. The Doctor had barely touched his glass. His burger was almost gone, but his cup remained nearly full.

"I don't know how they drink that rubbish," he commented, nodding at Jason and the rest of the team, some of whom were ordering their fifth pint.

"You don't drink?"

"I don't drink things that taste like a Dalek's eyestalk."

Quinley assumed his words were a dig toward beer. "Try something else," she suggested, handing him the pub's drink menu.

The Doctor flipped through the colourful and eclectic pages of The Old School Yard's menu quickly before setting it down. "Too many options," he said. "All of which have entirely too much alcohol in them."

Quinley thought back to Paris. The Doctor had ordered a banana daiquiri at Le Sancerre, which he adored, and then at the Eiffel Tower, he had a glass of champagne that he didn't seem to like. Quinley flagged down one of the waitresses. "A Hemmingway daiquiri and a cosmo, please."

"What was that?" the Doctor questioned. "I thought you didn't drink that much."

"I don't. One is for you." He looked incredulous. "I promise, you'll like one, if not both, of them. They don't contain a lot of alcohol, and they're terribly fruity."

As it turned out, the Doctor enjoyed the Hemingway daiquiri. After another hour at the pub, the team began to leave. Quinley made to get up, and the Doctor moved to her side, when Jason grabbed her elbow.

"Can I talk to you? It'll only take a sec." Quinley shrugged and motioned for the Doctor to wait for her; Jason led her a few steps away. "So what's up with you two?"

"Jase, what are you talking about?"

"Oh, don't act like you don't know." He winked.

"No, Jase. Nothing is going on. We're friends. Period. End of discussion." He raised an eyebrow. "Stop looking at me like that."

"Oh, come on, Quin. You spent the entire time here with him. The way you look at him… And that hug!"

Quinley shook her head. "You're a nutter. I have to go."

She and the Doctor exited the pub and continued down the streets of London. It was nearly eight o'clock, and the July sun was drooping low in the sky. The Doctor had parked the TARDIS in the yard behind Quinley's flat, and when they arrived back, he retreated into the blue box hastily, leaving Quinley standing on her doorstep, utterly confused.

She gave him a few minutes before she went out, and, finding the door was open, entered the TARDIS. The Doctor stood at the center console, staring intently at the monitor.

"I'm being summoned," he stated before she could say anything.

"What? What d'you mean, you're being summoned?" She approached the console, moving to stand beside him.

He turned the monitor so that she could read it better. "These are space-time coordinates," he explained. "Somewhere someone needs me." Quickly, he added, "Needs us. And I have to be there for them. If they've been able to send me a direct message, it must be urgent." He tapped the keyboard, bringing up a picture of a woman in her late thirties. "Oh, hello." He chuckled.

"Doctor, who is she?"

"She helped me a few years ago. I had a space helmet on backwards, and she took me back to the TARDIS."

"What were you… you know what? Never mind."

"That's the spirit!" called the Doctor, running around the console and pressing a few buttons before returning. "Now, off we go then. To 1941!" He pulled a lever and the TARDIS began to grind, her center pendulum moving up and down as she disappeared into the past.


	6. Chapter 6

"Doctor, where are we?" Quinley questioned, stepping out of the TARDIS. They had landed in what appeared to be an attic, and a rather spacious one at that. To her left, a few things—trunks, she assumed—were covered by white sheets. To her right, a work table sat uncovered, the only thing in the room not covered by a white sheet.

"Dorset," he answered simply, pushing a large square box out of the TARDIS. On top of the large box were two other boxes—both much smaller, one was a rectangle, the other a perfect square. All three were wrapped in TARDIS blue paper and sealed with white ribbon. "Happy Christmas, Quinley."

"But it was November!" she protested, walking swiftly to the small circular window behind the TARDIS. There, on the ground, the grass and trees were hidden under a thin blanket of white that more than likely would not survive the night. "Time travel!" she marveled, turning back to the Doctor. "Why are we here?"

He grinned. "To make Christmas brilliant for one family."

"But why?"

"Because they very much need it, that's why!" He ran back into the TARDIS, coming back with a half open box full of Christmas decorations. "Help me unpack."

* * *

"Doctor, I think they're here!" Quinley called from the salon. The knock at the door sounded again.

"Oh, right! Brilliant!" He raced down the stairs to the door, attempting to pull it open.

"It's broken, remember?"

"Oh right." He tugged harder. "Sorry!" he called to the other side. "It's the door. It's because of the cold!" Finally, he wrenched the door open, but instead of swinging open, it fell straight backwards. Quinley chuckled, moving to stand in the doorway of the salon. Unhearing, the Doctor popped his head outside. "Here we go. Well, come in! In you come!" He motioned for the people on the other side to enter.

Quinley watched as three people entered the foyer—a little boy with glasses, a girl, older than the boy, with long, pleated hair, and a mother, the woman whose picture had been on the screen of the TARDIS. All three were bundled up to avoid the cold. "May I take your coats?" Quinley questioned politely, approaching the family. They shed their outer layers gratefully, handing her a pile of coats, hats, scarves and gloves. Quinley carefully laid the garments in the closet, not bothering to hang anything.

"The back door is still broadly operational," the Doctor announced, picking up the fallen door and replacing it. He nodded at Quinley. "I see you've met my companion. Now, may I take your cases?" The three thanked the Doctor, sitting their luggage on the floor in front of him. "Would you mind carrying them?" He stepped over the boy's suitcase. "I need to show you around."

"Oh, no, wait!" the mother called. "Who are you?"

"I'm the caretaker!" the Doctor replied pleasantly. "And that's my companion." Quinley nodded curtly.

"But you aren't Mr. Cardew."

"I agree."

"I don't understand. Are you the _new _caretaker?"

"I'm usually called the Doctor. Or the Caretaker. Or 'Get off this planet.' Although, strictly speaking, that isn't much of a name." He walked toward the mother. "Hello, Madge Arwell." He shook her hand. "Cyril Arwell!" He shook the boy's hand. "And Lily Arwell." He greeted, grabbing the girl's hand. "Now, come on. Plenty to see." He opened a set of doors. "Smaller sitting room. Lots of chairs, which seem pointless without a television. So, I made some repairs." He hit a button on the door frame and the chairs began to dance around the room. The children gasped. "I know!"

The Doctor showed the Arwells around the rest of the house. He had made 'repairs' in each room. From a lemonade tap in the kitchen to hammocks in Lily and Cyril's room, the house had it all. Madge's bedroom was, as the Doctor put it, 'grown-up and boring', and the moving staircase was broken, but, in spite of it all, the children loved the house. The Doctor had warned them all not to enter the attic, where he and Quinley slept, because of singing panthers.

Despite the fact that Lily and Cyril loved the Doctor's revamping of the old house, Madge was growing increasingly frustrated with each room. In the children's bedroom, she finally snapped. "Children, go downstairs," she commanded.

"Why? Are we leaving?" Lily questioned, confused.

"Yes. No. I don't know. Go downstairs."

Lily and her brother obeyed, exiting the room and leaving the Doctor and Quinley alone with their mother. "Why are you doing all this?"

"I'm just… trying to take care of things," answered the Doctor. "I'm the caretaker."

"That's not what caretakers do."

"Then why are they called caretakers?"

Madge remained silent for a moment. "Their dad is dead." Quietly, the Doctor apologized. "Lily and Cyril's father—my husband—is dead. And they don't know yet. Because if I tell them now, then Christmas will always be what took their father away from them. And no one should have to live by that. Of course, when the Christmas period is over, I should…" she trailed off. "I don't know why I keep shouting at them."

"Because every time you see them happy, you remember how sad they're going to be," the Doctor stated softly.

"So you try to keep their happiness at bay so it doesn't hurt so much," added Quinley.

"And it breaks your heart," he finished.

Madge remained silent. "Mum! You've got to see this!" Cyril called excitedly.

"Because what's the point of them being sad now, if they're just going to be sad later?" the Doctor questioned. "The answer is, of course, because they're going to be sad later."

"It's hard Madge, but you've got to let them be happy now. Because if they aren't, then being sad later will be all the more terrible."

After a second of silence, the Doctor changed the subject. "Now, we'd better get downstairs. I think they may have found the main sitting room. I repaired it," he whispered, as though it were a huge secret.

Madge looked at him solemnly before exiting the room, leaving the Doctor and Quinley behind. The Doctor grabbed Quinley's hand and led her down the stairs to the main sitting room, which was completely decorated for Christmas.

Airplanes and trains flew around a rotating tree, lit in multicoloured lights and shiny baubles. The Doctor's giant blue package sat beside the tree, reflecting the light off its surface. Lily and Cyril stood in front of the tree, looking at the Doctor.

"I know," he whispered.

"Who decorated all this?" Cyril questioned, spinning around the room in awe.

"Quinley."

"It's beautiful!" Lily gasped, picking up a small golden figure of Mary from the nativity scene sitting on one of the end tables.

"Thank you." Quinley smiled, inspecting her work. The Doctor gave her hand a gentle squeeze. She hadn't realised he hadn't let go.

"Look at this present!" Cyril gaped, running over to it and reading the tag. "It's for me!"

"It says it's for all of us," Lily chided. "But, it doesn't say who it's from." The Doctor grinned widely, starting to pull Quinley into the foyer. "Mother, who left this here?"

As they were walking away, Quinley heard Madge speaking to her children. "That man is quite ridiculous. You must stay away from him."

"I like him."

"I like him too," Cyril agreed.

* * *

Later that night, Quinley and the Doctor sat in the attic. The Doctor sat at the work table with his sonic screwdriver, rewiring some part of the TARDIS. Quinley sat beside him on the floor, leaning against his leg, reading in the lamp light.

"When d'you think Madge is going to tell her kids?" she asked the Doctor, who had taken a break from his repairs. "About their dad, I mean."

"Hard to tell." He patted her head, smoothing down her hair.

Quinley sighed, readjusting herself against the Doctor's leg as he went back to work. The droning hum of his screwdriver drowned out the sound of the door opening.

"You lied about the panthers," Lily pointed out, crossing her arms.

"Famous last words," the Doctor teased.

"Why have you got a phone box in your room?"

"It's not a phone box. It's my… wardrobe. I've just painted it to look like a phone box."

"So, what are you doing?"

"Reading," Quinley answered, not looking up.

"Rewiring."

"Why would you rewire a wardrobe?"

Quinley snorted. "Have you seen the way he dresses?" At this, Lily chuckled. The machine in front of the Doctor beeped just as Quinley shivered. "Where's your brother?"

"In bed."

"Go check," instructed the Doctor, glancing at the wiring of the machine. "Please." As soon as the door shut, the Doctor went back to work. "You felt it, too?" he questioned. "The chill?"

"For a second, yeah. Then it was gone."

"Diffused into the air."

Minutes late, Lily returned. "Still in bed, asleep," she announced.

"Okay." The Doctor glared at the wiring of the box. "Must be faulty, then." The machine beeped again, this time, more urgently. "You're sure he's still in bed?"

"I saw him."

"Let's check, just to be safe." Quinley held up her hand and the Doctor grabbed it, standing up and pulling her with him.

The three made the trek downstairs quietly. When they reached the door to the children's bedroom, Lily opened it slightly, sliding into the room so the Doctor could look.

"See?" she whispered.

The Doctor shushed her and sneaked carefully to the hammocks. Gently, he removed the covers from Cyril's sleeping form. "Oh, he's good."

"What?" Quinley asked, peeking her head in the door.

"The old 'bear and duvet'. Classic." He rushed out of the room, grabbing both Lily and Quinley's hands as he ran past.

They took the stairs two at a time, entering the main sitting room at full force, just in time to see Cyril's hand grope for a torch before disappearing into the Doctor's big blue present.

"Cyril!" he called, running into the room.

"What's happening?" Lily followed the Doctor. "I don't-" She stopped short as the Doctor began to crawl into the box after her brother. "What is that?"

"With me! Quickly!" The Doctor reached for her hand. "Come on." He pulled Lily into the box with him. "Quinley!"

"I'll stay here, just in case Madge wakes up."

"Good plan." The Doctor nodded and he and Lily moved farther into the box, disappearing.

Quinley stared. Where the Doctor and Lily had once been, a picturesque snowy forest stood. The Doctor was full of surprises.


	7. Chapter 7

Quinley sat in front of the box, both guarding it against anything that was going to enter it, and guarding the house from anything that was going to exit the box. She had her book on her lap, something she had borrowed from the Doctor—A collection of all of Edgar Allan Poe's short stories.

"Lily and Cyril Arwell, where are you?" Madge called, bursting into the sitting room.

"Oh, hello, ma'am," greeted Quinley, standing and stretching. "Lovely night, isn't it?"

"Where are my children?" she questioned angrily.

"Well… they're with the Doctor. Or, rather, the Caretaker," Quinley corrected, smiling gently. "They're fine. I think."

A cold wind suddenly blew from the box, tousling Quinley's hair and blowing Madge's skirt hems against her legs. "What is that? What's in there?"

"Now, Mrs. Arwell, before you get worried…"

"They've gone in there, haven't they? Lily and Cyril and the idiot that calls himself caretaker?"

"Oi, he isn't an idiot!"

"So they have, haven't they?" Quinley said nothing, but moved to stand between Madge and the box. "Please, let me through. My children could be in danger." Thoughtfully, she added. "And so could the caretaker. I have to help them."

Quinley shut her eyes tightly, weighing her options. "Fine. Yes. Come on, then. I'm coming with you." She crawled through the box first, holding out a hand for Madge once she felt her feet hit the cold snow below. She was glad, now, that she had taken the Doctor's offer of slippers from the TARDIS wardrobe.

"It's so cold," Madge said, drawing her housecoat closer to her.

Quinley nodded, looking around. "Yeah it is." It was then that she noticed the footprints. "Look." Quinley drew Madge over, crouching beside the tracks. "These bigger ones are the Doc-er, Caretaker's. And these are Lily's." She moved over slightly so that Madge could look. "And these, then, must be Cyril's." Quinley decided not to mention the fourth pair of footprints.

"We should follow them," Madge announced, beginning to walk in the direction the footprints were going.

"Hang on. We don't even know what's out there."

"My children and your boyfriend are out there alone. Does it really matter?" Madge was clearly getting frustrated.

"No, I suppose it doesn't," Quinley conceded, before adding. "He isn't my boyfriend."

They began to wade through the snow, following the footprints. When they were gone, covered by the wind, Quinley jogged ahead to see if she could pick up the trail again before they continued. After a while, though, it became increasingly hard to find the footprints again.

"No luck," Quinley said, walking back toward Madge. "I can't find them."

"Then we're lost," she replied angrily. "We're lost, and we're going to die here."

"Now, come on, we can't think like that. We're lost, yes, but that doesn't mean we can't be found again."

Something loud and heavy fell to their left.

"What was that?" Madge questioned, shining her flashlight in the direction of the sound.

Suddenly, a light from above began sweeping the area.

"What _is_ that?"

"See?" Quinley smiled nervously. "Found again. Let's keep walking, though, just to be safe."

They had only taken a few steps before a huge metal leg landed in front of them. Both women stumbled back; Quinley caught Madge before she could fall. A light from above shone down on them, blinding Madge as she looked into it.

"This tree farm is private property," announced a metallic voice. "You are trespassing." A door opened in the metal leg and out ran three people in yellow hazmat suits carrying guns.

Quinley scrambled away, dragging Madge with her. Madge held up her hands in peace and one of the yellow suited figures approached them, scanning them both with the red lit tip of his gun.

"Unarmed, sir," the man declared, lifting the visor of his suit.

"What the hell are you doing here?" another man questioned.

The first man yelled out in surprise. "Oh. No. Unarmed." The second man lifted his visor to look at his apparently stupid companion. "Sorry, sir. She's wearing wool. Natural fabrics tend to interfere."

"Please say we can tell the difference between wool and sidearms."

"We can tell the difference, sir."

"Can we?"

The first man shook his head. "Not always, sir, no."

The third figure, a woman, raised her visor to look incredulously at her companions.

The second, older man turned back to Madge and Quinley. "What are you doing here?" he questioned. "Do you understand what is about to happen in this forest?"

"No," Quinley mumbled. "What _is_ about to happen in this forest?"

"I'm sorry!" Madge blurted. "I was just…" Madge trailed off as the woman scanned them both again.

"Sir, I think she's a time traveler."

Quinley smiled. "Why, yes, I am."

Again, they ignored her. "We're sure it's not her cardigan?" the older man questioned sardonically.

"Who are you?" Madge asked, finally able to speak a complete thought. "It was Christmas!" She began to cry.

Quinley, unsure of what to do, put a comforting hand on Madge's shoulder while the three in yellow suits just looked at them.

"Ma'am," the older one said finally. "Please stop crying. I can't interrogate you while you're crying. This is a military engagement! There's no crying in military engagements!" The younger man began to cry, as well.

"Oh, what's your problem, then?" Quinley questioned. The three seemed to notice her for the first time.

"I'm fine!"

"Corporal Vanguard, what is wrong with you?" The older man looked at the corporal with confusion.

"I have mother issues, sir."

Quinley rolled her eyes. If this was the military, clearly their planet had terrible standards.

"Sir, with regret," the woman began. "I'm going to have to lower my weapon."

"What? Why?"

"She is a crying, unarmed civilian! I'm thinking of the visual."

"Nobody's looking!"

"That doesn't mean there isn't a visual."

"That's exactly what that means!"

The three continued to argue among themselves. The woman set her weapon in the snow, and they argued more. Madge looked to Quinley, who was watching the three, confused. Finally, the woman convinced the other two to put down their weapons out of respect and back away.

"We're from Andrasani Major," the older man announced. "The year is 5345, and we mean you no harm. Where are you from?"

"England," Madge answered. "1941." Quinley nodded. "And there's a war on." She pulled a revolver from her wool coat and pointed it at the older man. Shocked, Quinley backed slowly away.

"There's nothing you could say that could convince me you'd use that gun," the old man stated.

"Really?" Madge grinned manically. "I'm looking for my children." The man's eyes widened in horror. "And her boyfriend."

"He isn't my boyfriend!" Quinley protested softly.

* * *

Quinley wondered if Madge was being ridiculous. Yes, her children were technically out in the wilderness with a stranger, but did she really need to tie the men up? Quinley didn't think so. They were standing in the cockpit of the hazmat suits' transport, Quinley, Madge, and the woman free, the two men tied to poles. Madge was interrogating the men about how she got there and what was going on, and the woman was scanning the forest for signs of life, while Quinley was examining the controls. She had never seen anything like the control system of the transport. The TARDIS was much more advanced, but she supposed it was similar to how an aeroplane's cockpit looked. She didn't know, though. She had never flown.

Suddenly, Quinley grew concerned at the conversation. "This forest is about to be harvested," the older man stated.

"Harvested?" Madge was still pointing the gun at him.

"The entire area is being melted down for battery fluid."

"Melted down? How do you melt a forest?"

Quinley, now fully paying attention, moved to Madge's side. "Acid rain," the older man replied smugly. "The satellites are in position. Anything still in the forest will be melted along with it."

Quinley walked over to the woman. "Can you hurry up with that scan?"

"I'm trying, ma'am." She pressed more buttons. "Okay! Picking up life signs about… a half a mile away."

"Can we go to them?" Madge questioned, hurrying over. "Can we move this thing?"

"Not trained, love."

"Who is?"

"Them." Quinley pointed at the two tied up.

"But I can't trust them!" Madge protested. She sighed. "It looks a little like a plane. My husband drives a plane. He took me up once."

"It takes years of training, ma'am." The machine beeped.

"What's it doing?" Quinley questioned, leaning forward to inspect the screen.

"Scanning for an audio connection. We might be able to hear them." The machine beeped again before a voice crackled through.

"Five minute warning!" The automated voice warned. "Prepared for beam up!"

"I'm so sorry!" The woman scurried over to the two men. "You have to find a way out! Acid fall is coming! You won't last two minutes." In a flash of light, the three were gone.

Once again, the machine beeped, but this time, a different voice blared through the cockpit. It was Lily. Madge looked hopefully up at the speaker. Cyril spoke next, and Madge looked absolutely jovial. When the Doctor asked Cyril a question, Quinley beamed. She hadn't realized she had been worried about him.

The two women stood, listening to their conversation for a moment. They were talking about trees being afraid of the rain, something the Doctor didn't understand. He then explained to a frightened Lily that the stars were the life force of the trees. Curiously, Quinley glanced out the window. Sure enough, lights were coming out of the trees and into the sky.

"They need to travel inside a living thing. Inside Cyril," the Doctor explained. Madge gasped, unmoving. Suddenly, Quinley was extremely worried. Not only about the Doctor, but about Cyril and Lily, as well.

The three continued to talk, Madge staring at the speaker, Quinley staring at Madge, until a fourth voice cut in. Madge began to cry, assuming it was hurting Cyril. The trees were planning to use the boy as a vessel to carry their souls, but he was not strong enough. Bravely, the Doctor volunteered to take his place, but the trees insisted he, too, was unfit. The Doctor tried anyway, and Quinley listened in horror as he screamed in pain, attempting to save Cyril Arwell.

* * *

It had started to rain. The two Arwell children and the Doctor were in danger, yet there Madge sat, sobbing, listening to what was going on with her children. Frustrated, Quinley pressed a few buttons on the console and the speaker went dead; the cockpit grew deafeningly silent. "Madge," Quinley said, putting both hands on the woman's shoulders and hoisting her to her feet. "Madge, listen to me. Your children are safe, but it isn't going to stay that way for long. It started to rain. Come on, you've got to snap out of it." Madge looked at her. "Good, now… you're our only hope of saving your kids."

"And your boyfriend." Madge managed a weak smile.

Quinley ignored her comment. "I can't move this. I've never even been in a plane. You're their only hope of survival. But we've got to get there quickly." Madge blinked once and turned away, immediately setting to work on the controls.


End file.
